by Michelle Cox
The men, surprisingly, followed them to the drawing room rather quickly, which on the surface seemed to indicate an eagerness to enjoy the ladies’ company and the music, but which was really, truth be told, the result of only having been allowed to indulge in one quick glass of port by Lord Linley, who fully understood the nature of his current duty, having been instructed in it earlier by none other than Lady Linley herself. Gruffly, then, he led the men into the reception room as he would have led them into battle, with a promise of cigars and a more explicit discussion regarding the evolving situation in Europe later, when the evening’s entertainment had been endured for a sufficient amount of time, muttering as he went, something about losing the battle but winning the war.
The young ladies, however, were all but unaware of this apparent sacrifice as the men came marching in and were happy to leave behind their own idle chitchat in favor of a dance or two, their faces lighting up considerably now.
Clive and Henrietta felt obliged to stand up to several of the serene, elegant waltzes that proceeded, Henrietta whispering to Clive that they were sure to not hear any jazz or big band here in these ancient halls, to which Clive had quickly smiled his agreement. Henrietta noticed that Lady Linley looked on with approval as Wallace methodically spoke to each single woman in the room, his leg preventing him from dancing, though he did make one exception and singled out Lady Winifred to stand up to a waltz with him, her shyness and his bad leg making the endeavor painfully awkward to watch.
Henrietta was of course asked to dance by several of the other gentlemen, whom she felt she couldn’t refuse, including Lord Linley, whose fingers she maddeningly felt a bit too low on her back and whose other hand grasped hers with more pressure than was necessary. Henrietta merely smiled graciously and was very glad when Captain Foley, Clive’s friend from the war, interrupted.
Captain Foley was a handsome man with dark brown, almost black, hair and a set jaw. And though in tails just now rather than a uniform, he seemed every bit the dashing officer. He sported a rather stylish mustache and still kept himself trim. The way he looked at her now with a certain glimmer in his gray-green eyes led Henrietta to guess that he was perhaps the philandering type.
“Might I offer you my congratulations, Mrs. Howard,” he said with a suggestive sort of smile, confirming Henrietta’s assessment. “Clive’s a very lucky man.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Henrietta answered smoothly. “I believe you knew each other in the war, isn’t that right?”
“We did indeed,” Captain Foley said seriously, any hint of flirtation quickly evaporating. “Never fought in the same trench, of course, but in the same battle.
“I should have liked to have known him then,” Henrietta added. “What was he like? I can only imagine.”
“Very serious in his duty.”
“I’m not surprised,” Henrietta said with a sad smile.
“No,” Captain Foley went on. “Never shirked from his duty, did Clive. He was confoundedly brave; his men loved him.”
“Yes, I’m sure they did.”
“He risked his life for them many times, and they would have followed him to hell and back,” Captain Foley continued grimly. He paused to twirl her. “But I’m sure he’s told you all the old stories,” he tried to say in a lighter tone once she was facing him again.
“No, not really,” Henrietta admitted, suddenly feeling disappointed. “He … he doesn’t like to speak about it.”
“Understandable. Not many of us do. Too ghastly, really.” He paused for several moments then before continuing. “And definitely not suitable for dancing conversation,” he said, flashing her a rather charming smile again. “Especially with such a beautiful woman,” he added, his previously flirtatious manner returning.
“Have you never thought to marry, Captain?” Henrietta parried.
Captain Foley surprised her with a brief chuckle and then leaned toward her. “I’ll let you in on a little secret,” he whispered to her, “but don’t tell Lady Linley, or I fear I wouldn’t have been asked down for the weekend.”
Henrietta looked at him warily.
“I’ve very recently engaged myself to be married,” he said waggishly.
“Captain Foley! How wonderful!” Henrietta whispered back. “Who’s the lucky woman?”
“A Miss Rosalyn Edwards.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know her.”
“No, you wouldn’t, of course,” he said, still smiling. “She’s from Devonshire. Lord Huntington’s fourth daughter. My father is his cousin, so not exactly arranged, but certainly encouraged and condoned. As it happens, Rosalyn and I find we are quite suitable for each other, as it turns out.”
“But are you in love, Captain?” Henrietta asked before she could catch herself.
Captain Foley laughed again. “I can see you are a romantic, Mrs. Howard. But then,” he said, observing her, “you would be.”
“I’m terribly sorry, Captain!” Henrietta blushed. “I don’t know what possessed me to ask such a thing.”
“Not at all. I don’t mind answering. At least you’re honest,” he said, smiling down at her. “No, not in love, certainly,” he went on. “But we are fond of each other, and that’s quite enough.”
The dance ended, then, and Captain Foley bowed before releasing her. “I fear I’ve monopolized you quite enough at present, Mrs. Howard. I must away now and dance with all of these other lovely ladies, as I’m sure that was what I was asked here for. I trust you’ll keep my secret?” he whispered with a knowing look.
“Of course,” she smiled back at him and gave his hand a little squeeze. “Good luck.”
He deposited her near Mrs. Cooper, the mill owner’s wife, and then politely begged the honor of standing up with one of Mrs. Cooper’s daughters who was hovering near. In response, the girl curtsied excitedly and quickly took his hand. Henrietta meanwhile took a glass of offered champagne from one of the footmen passing by, feeling relieved to finally have a moment’s rest, when she was surprised by Mrs. Cooper, who apparently felt the need to prove her sagacity to the new Mrs. Howard and therefore began a rather awkward tête-à-tête about the latest fashions. Henrietta listened kindly and did her best to keep up, not being at all knowledgeable, actually, about the big Parisian houses now being elaborated upon by the plump Mrs. Cooper, but she couldn’t help but wonder what the woman would have thought if she knew she was addressing a girl who had once scrubbed tavern floors and danced with men for money.
Fortunately, she was rescued before long by the Honorable Mr. Sedgewick, and though she spoke cordially with him as they danced, Henrietta could not keep her eyes from wandering to Captain Foley every now and again, wondering what it would be like to enter into a marriage with only “fondness.”
As the night wore on, the music livened up as much as possible given the setting—the quartet playing an occasional jig now. Clive observed Henrietta being instructed in how to dance to such a tune by none other than Lord Linley himself and decided that this might be the perfect moment in which to step out and get some air and possibly a smoke of his pipe in peace. Accordingly, he took a large cognac and made his way to a set of French doors running along an outside wall toward the back of the room, hidden partially behind thick velvet curtains, one of which was tied back with a golden tassel. The doors opened easily enough to his touch and led into a vaulted Victorian conservatory. Tropical plants still resided within, basking in the warm air, though to Clive’s eye, even in the darkened interior, there did not seem to be quite as many as there had been when he was a boy, but very probably he was remembering it wrong. He had surely forgotten about the heat of the conservatory, and having wanted to escape the heat of the reception room in the first place, moved toward the back, where he thought he remembered there to be a little door that led to the outside.
As he navigated the brick pathway that wound through the overhanging plants, he could see that the staff had been neglecting this room as well. Indeed since he had been here
he could not help notice how badly Castle Linley was in need of repair. Crumbling walls, parts of the gardens overgrown, the stables not quite as clean and maintained as they should be. He tried in his mind to allow concessions for the fact that it had been requisitioned by the army during the war and not quite restored to its former glory when they no longer had need of it and had finally withdrawn, leaving the Howards to put it all back together, but he still found it hard to understand. It created a nagging guilt, however, that Highbury was in need of its share of repairs as well, thinking about the abominable servants’ quarters over the stables that he and Henrietta had witnessed when confronting the suspicious Virgil earlier in the summer. If nothing else, this trip was spurring in him a desire to throw himself into Highbury upon their return, to take an interest where it should have been all along.
Indeed, it was about just such matters that Lord Linley had called him into the study this morning to discuss after he had returned from his ride with Henrietta. Though it was only ten in the morning, Lord Linley had offered him a cigar and a drink, both of which Clive had respectfully declined, discreetly consulting his pocket watch as he did so. Clive took a seat opposite him, curious as to the nature of this impromptu meeting, as it were, while Lord Linley took his time in pouring himself a drink, seeming reluctant now to broach the topic that was so obviously on his mind. Finally, after fiddling with several items on his desk and letting out a deep sigh, Lord Linley proceeded to intimate that the estate’s finances were woefully in arrears. He then asked, gingerly, how Highbury had fared through the war and the Depression. Alcott never wrote of any problems, Lord Linley confided, so he assumed all was well, was it not? Clive noted the eagerness in his uncle’s voice and felt suddenly sorry for him, despite the unpleasantness of the current conversation. He had certainly aged since Clive last saw him; he seemed broken and sad, muddled at times and clinging to the past, whereas he had once been very astute and sharp. In looks, he resembled his own father very much, though his father had always been the smaller—and the more obliging—of the two.
“We were affected by the crash, it’s true,” Clive answered slowly. “But we’ve recovered well. We were lucky that Father invested so well.”
“I see, I see. Very good, indeed,” Lord Linley said, taking a drink of his brandy. Clive began to suspect that this exchange was going to uncomfortably veer into a request for funds from across the ocean, which Clive with almost certainty already knew would be a dead end. Montague Howard, against his own father’s wishes, had married Margaret Beaufort, who, though an earl’s daughter, had come to the marriage with not the excessive dowry that the estate so badly needed. It had fallen to Alcott, then, to marry well to attempt to shore up Linley, so he had dutifully married a very wealthy American, Antonia Hewitt. The contract that had been drawn up had accordingly allowed for a third of her fortune to be deposited in Castle Linley’s coffers, but somehow even that vast amount had not been enough. As per arrangement, Alcott had gone to live in America with his new bride, and Montague had had to try to restore Linley with what he had, Antonia’s father having made it quite clear that that would be the end of any further funds. Clive knew that even if his father could be persuaded to offer more pecuniary aid, his mother would not hear of it.
Thankfully for Clive, Lord Linley did not go down that path, however, but instead abruptly changed the subject while he puffed at his cigar. “Did I ever tell you, Clive, my boy, about my engagement in the Boer War?” Not waiting for an answer, he went on. “Ah, we gave the Zulus hell, we did, Clive. That’s when a man was a man, I tell you!” he harrumphed.
Clive wasn’t sure what to say next, so he merely answered, “Indeed, sir.” He had, in fact, heard these stories many a time during his summers at Linley.
Lord Linley sat determinedly puffing his cigar as his gaze travelled to his many trophy heads displayed and mounted around the room, several of them African in nature. A smile crept across his face, then, as if he were perhaps recalling happier days on safari, when one clearly understood who was the hunter and who the prey. But these memories seemed short-lived, however, and his face crumpled again almost instantly.
“Clive, what am I to do with Wallace?” he asked hopelessly, looking back at him now.
Of all things, Clive had not expected their exchange to turn in this direction and feared what was coming next.
“It should have been Linley, you know,” the old man said angrily, his words already a bit slurred. “Linley would have been the man to …” He took a large drink and then mumbled, “Bloody war!”—an expletive Clive thought odd since he had just moments before been espousing the glory of the Boer War. “Wallace could bloody well care less,” Lord Linley went on. “Doctors say to give him time, that he’s experienced a great shock, but, look at you! Now, you know what you’re about. You’ve taken up your responsibility like a man, taken a lovely girl. I’ve been to Highbury, you know, back in ’92. Beautiful place Alcott has, I’ll give him that. Small recompense, I suppose, for having to leave Blighty. Still, maybe it wasn’t such a bad sentence. Look around you, Clive, it’s all the same, all the old estates,” Lord Linley said defeatedly. “Alcott was ever more judicious with you and Julia, I saw that early on,” he mumbled, shifting gears again. “I thought him a fool, but perhaps he had the right of it. I was too hard on Linley and too soft on Wallace.”
Clive again felt sorry for the old man slumped before him behind his mahogany desk; he had ever been fond of his uncle. He could understand the disappointment Lord Linley was feeling and felt a fresh wave of guilt at being awarded his uncle’s praises when he himself had been the cause of his own parents’ anguish, having very nearly walked away from Highbury as well. And yet he could sympathize with Wallace and his apathy, recognizing all too well the dark places in which Wallace’s mind was probably sometimes dwelling and knowing firsthand the resultant despondency that often came without warning. Accordingly, he felt a kinship with Wallace, at least on that score.
“I don’t know what he gets up to all day,” Lord Linley was saying. “Bloody waste of time. Why won’t he settle down and get married? Lord knows there’s plenty of girls for the taking after the decimation we’ve just been through. Take Ashforth’s girl, for example. A bit past the bloom of youth, perhaps, but plenty of money. Is it too much to ask? Picking a girl and bedding her? It can’t be for lack of trying on Lady Linley’s and my part. Do you know how many bloody weekends such as this we’ve had to endure? Always the same. Is it too much to ask for him to take up his responsibilities? If something isn’t done soon, I will be forced to sell the estate,” he said with a heavy sigh.
“Is it as bad as all that, sir?”
“Yes, I’m afraid it is, Clive, my boy, and yet Wallace feels no sense of urgency, no sense of despair or gloom over the matter.”
Clive cleared his throat. “Would you like me to speak to him?”
“If you’d like, dear boy,” Lord Linley said forlornly. “See what he gets up to, though I’m not sure how far you’ll get. You’ve heard him. Pertains to be a socialist.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far.”
“You don’t know him like I do,” Lord Linley put in. “The war’s addled his brains.”
Clive was about to argue this, but it occurred to him, then, before he did so, how he had seen Wallace slinking through the woods just this morning and reflected that perhaps he did not know his cousin as well as he once had.
—
Once Lord Linley had finally dismissed him, having come to no real conclusions about anything in particular, Clive began looking for a chance to get Wallace alone, but Wallace was strangely absent from the shoot. And now at the reception, Wallace seemed preoccupied by what surely were Lady Linley’s instructions for the evening to converse with all of the young ladies present and make charming small talk, though Clive wasn’t at all sure how charming Wallace could actually be these days. Maybe once, but now?
It was quite singular, then, as he tried to open the
little glass door at the back of the conservatory, to see none other than Wallace himself again slinking off as fast as his crippled leg would allow him across the back garden.
Furiously, Clive tried to open the door, but it was either stuck or locked, and he cursed to himself. Why was everything here so confining, so locked and broken? he fumed. Clive tightly grasped the handle one more time and tried lifting it a bit as he put pressure on it and this time managed to get it open. As he burst forth, the pea gravel crunching underfoot as his feet sank into it, he could just make out the figure of Wallace disappearing into the formal maze of shrubbery beyond the fountain. Clive considered calling out to him, but even before he had a chance, he heard a voice behind him.
“Clive, old boy, there you are!”
Startled, Clive turned and peered back at the figure coming toward him through the conservatory and recognized it as Captain Foley.
“Bertram …” he said hesitantly.
Quickly Clive looked once more back across the garden, but Wallace was already gone. It would be no use going after him now, Clive sighed. He knew he could probably catch up with him, considering Wallace’s bad leg, but the moment of surprise had passed, and he would have to make up some explanation to Bertram as to why he suddenly had to dash off. There would be another time, he knew, to catch Wallace. Maybe tomorrow.
“What the devil are you doing out here?” Foley asked now, his hand held out to him.
Despite his momentary distraction, Clive shook the proffered hand warmly. He had been pleasantly surprised when Foley had turned up as a guest for the weekend. Someone else who had lived.
“Just felt in need of some air,” Clive said, stepping farther outside now into the chilly night.
“Yes, I bloody well know what you mean,” Foley said, following him out. “Smoke?” Foley asked, holding out a cigarette case.